


Coal Dust

by Pavuvu



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Childhood, Drama, Family, Gen, War, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2011-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:09:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pavuvu/pseuds/Pavuvu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George Luz never expected Joe Toye to tell such a good story but then again he never bothered to ask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coal Dust

It was hard growing up the son of a miner in Reading, Pennsylvania but it was even harder to escape ones sisters.

 **“You better bring back a good one! You hear me Joey?” ****Margret sure had a pair of lungs. Her indignant yelling could be heard across farm fields let alone the front porch where the young boy stood hardly five feet away.**

“Like you should talk!” The boy’s voice was in that awkward adolescent stage, as if it could not decide whether to deepen or just stay put. ****

“Just go!” Margret insisted, her navy eyes flashing.

The young Joseph Toye regarded his younger sister an extra second, making sure she knew he had power over her, before letting out a whoop and escaping into the Pennsylvania air.

The streets of Reading were just as they always were around this time of day, devoid of all able bodied men, who were still at work in the mines, a few mothers who still had coin from the last paycheck were browsing the market stands, a wary older woman swept out the front of her shop. Joe loped along, giving tentative waves to every voice that called his way, intent upon arriving to his destination on time.

It was nearing the end of fall, and the orchards were nearly picked clean, but the boy still had a job to do so long as the owner would pay his wage.

He scrambled over the barbed wire fence that separated the orchard from the dirt road and ran to join the group of migrant workers. They teased him at his appearance, in a myriad of languages, in which Joey did the best to respond in. They patted his head before shoving him off to where the other Reading boys were clearing the orchard, long ladder in hands.

He would finish his job hours later, when the sun had settled on the horizon and made its gentle way down. By then his fingers were sweet and sticky with the fruits dew, and the hardy bees from summer would try and land on those nimble surfaces before a hot breath blew them away. Each pocket held a rosy apple, crisp presents for his father’s return from the mines. After climbing the fence Joey took the apples into his hands and sprinted down the road. He came to a gangly stop on the street corner where the large trucks would release their load of coal dusted bodies at the end of the day, and Joey sank down onto the curb to wait. He rolled an apple between his hands, amused by the way the fruits skin stuck and gently pulled at his sticky hands.

It was a good fifteen minutes before the trucks showed up and the little Toye waited patiently for his father to jump out of the bed and onto firm ground. His large hand squeezed the boys shoulder, and left a smear of ash when it was taken away. Neither man paid it any attention, and they walked down the street, the sweet juice of the apples running down their chins, and both dreamed loudly of that nights dinner, and a rest after a hard day’s work.

As always it was Margret who started that night’s relocation between bedrooms. As always it started around two o’clock in the morning, when their parents were in their deepest sleeps. As the oldest of the three girls, she made it her priority to wake them each night, and lead them on their silent trek down the hall, and into their older brother’s room. Seven year old Ruth would be the first to step onto his twin sized mattress, and nestle down into the crock behind his knees. Mary came next, both in age and in position, huddling down in-between his arms. Then with a large yet playful sigh Margret would lean against his back, and breathe her nightly question into his ear.

“Did you think of a good one?”

Joey’s eyes scrunched together, and for a moment he struggled to recall what he had thought up earlier. He licked his lips, tongue catching on strands of Mary’s dark hair. He blew out and started into his sister’s nightly wish.

“The Cowboy reached for his pistol at the same moment the Injun went for his tomahawk. With a fearsome war cry the two legends of the west began their last fight. Weeks of smaller scuffles had led them to this. It was their final battle.”

“Is it really going to be the last one?” Little Ruth interjected, from her spot by his knees. Her short fingers grasped his blankets tight, making wrinkles in the thick cloth.

Mary swung at her. “Shut up Ruthie, I wanna hear this!”

Margret made a hissing noise and the little fight settled down.

Joey’s dark eyes glinted in the light of a passing automobile, and he started into the story once again. He told of the epic battle between two foes, and how it was that battle that leads to their destruction, but the happiness of the leading lady when she married the Cowboy’s best friend. It was nearing three when the girls finally took their leave, yawning sleepily, but minds racing from the final adventure of Cowboy and Injun.

The next morning came early and Mama pulled him from his slumber. “Get up Joey; you have to go to work.” It was Sunday, and the rest of the family was still in bed and would remain there until they had to go to church. Mama pulled him from his bed, pulling his arms through his shirtsleeves, and easing pants over knobby knees. She kissed his forehead, and pulled him into the kitchen, where a plate of eggs and toast awaited him. When he had finished and brushed his teeth, she kissed her twelve year old goodbye, and sent him off.

Once again he joined the migrant workers, and climbed up the ladders into the high leafy trees. Nimble fingers twisted the fruits stems and placed them into his basket. When full he called one of the ground workers over, and they exchanged a full basket for an empty and the process started over again. They had a quick pause for the lunch the Orchard owner’s wife had made, and went up into the trees for the final hours of picking season. When the work was done, a line formed and the foreman gave everyone their last wages. Joe clasped his eight dollars in his apple sweetened fingers and walked home with white knuckles.

A year later the Depression hit hard. His mother took in other families washing, and she and her three daughters worked hard to ease their monetary stress. Yet, the girls still got their daily etiquette session for an hour after school. Their mother was staunch in her beliefs that her girls would be perfect in their femininity, and by their perfection they would snag the rich men she had never been able to procure. In Joey’s mind this was of course complete blarney, not that he had the balls to tell his Mama that of course. The girls however suffered it quietly; existing in a life where roughhousing with their brother, and the other neighborhood children was strictly frowned upon. In exchange for the pleasantry of a childhood the three young girls could embroider precise and extravagant scenes, make and serve tea, bake crisp tea cookies, knit, do household sums, launder, and were on their way to being able to make their own dresses. It had become a thing of habit, and the girls took it in stride, their only discrepancy however, came deep in the night, with Joey’s stories of adventures.

It was early the morning after Joey’s fifteenth birthday when his father came into the room.

“Get up son.” The man said. His voice had a deep smoky quality that would become Joey’s own in the following year.

The young man slowly pushed himself onto his elbows and rubbed at his navy eyes. “What is it Dad?”

“Get dressed, I’ve got you a job in the mines, you’re starting today, Joe.” The old man’s voice held a pitying quality like he was reliving his own memory.

Joe pushed himself off his mattress and his father left the room. The gears in his mind were cranking as he pulled on his scuffed trousers and thick cotton shirt. His father called him Joe, not Joey, Joe. He was finally a man.

The two Toye men paraded down the street, thin metal lunch buckets in hand. Joe walked with a spring in his step, he felt like all eyes were on him, and everyone who saw knew who he was. Joe Toye, the man.

They stopped at the corner and boarded the Mine’s trucks with the rest of the men, and they road onward with grim faced miners. The mining facility was a black smudge against the brown and green mountain side. The truck halted and Joe got the first whiff of the smell he would greet every morning for the next eight years of his life.

There first stop was the equipment rooms, Joe was loaded up with work belts, a hardhat and lantern, excavation tools, and safety equipment. Then they went to the aviary. The old man who handled the canaries gave Joe a hard look with half blind eyes as he handed over the small metal wire cage. “You be careful boy, you watch this bird.”

For the first time that morning apprehension held Joe tight by the throat, his hands shook slightly as he took the cage and pulled it to his chest. The Canary may have been one of the most important parts of all the miners’ equipment. The little bird that would alert them when dangerous gasses leaked into the mines. His father swiped his hand across the boys back and led him to the mine shaft.

They were joined by three other men who would make up their excavation party, and they shuffled into the mines five by five elevator. The mesh wire doors fit together with a clang, and with a mechanical beep, the box began its shuddering way into the earth.

It was an odd sight, watching the beam of sunlight grow smaller and smaller as the elevator moved downward, as if they were a casket going into a grave. It was when Joe’s eyes passed even with the earth’s floor that he felt claustrophobia set within him.

His lungs pulled in air in dry musty gasps, pupils expanding and contracting erratically, the bird in his arms twittered excitedly as if sensing its holder’s distress. His lips felt cold, and he lost the feeling in his fingers as they bit into the wire. But then a warm hand fell upon his shoulder, and he snapped back into the blackness of the mind shaft. He watched as the slate walls rushed passed, the rub of the elevator sending dark particles into the air. Joe felt a muscled arm brush his shoulder and became aware of the other men in the cart. They were quiet, but they were there, they were in this same hell together.

He leaned on his father all the way home, hands covered in broken skin, and oozing the liquid of broken blisters. Yet in his hand he still held onto the canary’s cage, and the little yellow bird flitted happily around the cage.

That night his sisters mobbed him with questions.

“How was it Joey?” Ruth asked, “Was it fun?”

For a moment the young man remained silent, his throat working without producing a sound. “Yes Ruthie,” He lied,” It was lots of fun.”

“How about a story Joey?” Mary pleaded gently.

Joe took a deep breath and said, “There was once a pirate who sailed the Caribbean ocean, his ship was called the Virgin Mary, and any treasure he found, he brought back to his beloved in Jamaica. She was a nun, and she did not love him because she loved God. But the pirate loved her, and showered her in gifts, and in return she absolved him of his sins…”

The girls left him an hour later and he shifted into an uneasy sleep. He was forced awake less than an hour later by a cough that shook his entire frame. In the morning he would find that his sheets had been stained by the black powder exuded from his lungs.

The nightly stories did not last long after he began to work in the mines. After three days the children decided to make them a weekend happening, to be told on the days that Joe had off work. But even with that allowance, the weight of work became too much, and the old habits became a thing of the past.

Margret however, did not relinquish her hold so easily as her sisters. Every night she would creep into her brother’s room, step from the floor to his mattress, and settle down against his back. She told him about what he had missed in school, about the book she had read for English, and the boys who had turned their attentions to her.

Joe would always scowl at the last bit. “If I were still there they wouldn’t dare.”

She sighed and settled against him. “I know, and they know who that I have a tough miner for a brother, so they sure as heck won’t try anything!”

“You better be sure Mama doesn’t hear you talking like that.” He smiled sleepily.

“You’re not going to tell her!”

They drifted into a companionable silence, and then to sleep.

It was 1939 when it happened; Joe was twenty, Margret nineteen. He had been working at the mine for 5 years, and had a running record on canaries. He had only lost three in his entire career. It had been four months since he had been given a new bird. This one jokingly named Al Capone by Ruth. He had been in the pits since noon, swinging his pick ax mindlessly for the past two hours, his muscles hardened to the point that he could have lifted 300 pound tire without a second thought. However showing off his physical prowess was not the high point of the day, or the fact that Al gave his life to save Joe’s. The high point in his day came when returned home early, due to the high amounts of carbon monoxide within the mines and found his sister wearing a golden band with a small glittering diamond.

At first he was a hit by a truck load of surprise, it was quickly followed by a cold twisting in his stomach. “Congratulations.” He wheezed his voice slightly higher than the usual smoky tone. Margret pulled him into a hug and rotated her hips side to side slowly, rocking him gently. “Thanks Joe.” She felt his distress, in the same way she could sense his oncoming nightmares as they lay back to back in the early hours.

He forced a smile and kissed her check with the same forced joviality. “So Sis, who’s the lucky man?”

She let out a squeal of indignation and smacked his arm.

Joe went to her room that night, a rather unusual progression. He paused in the doorway, taking in the contrasts between the two rooms. Her mattress rested on a bed frame, where his was located on the floor; though it was dark he knew her walls were washed in a pale pink, the curtains a pastille yellow. He took a step inside and settled onto the foot of her bed.

“Margret?” His voice caught in his throat.

“Yeah Joe?” She had been awake, he could tell by the clarity of her voice.

“I’m happy for you.”

Her hand found his shoulder and she pulled him down beside her, scooting toward the wall to give his Adonis body enough room to lie down. When he had settled her arm wrapped around him and her breasts pressed gently into his back.

“I’ll be fine Joe. Mike loves me, he has a secure job in his father’s firm, and I’ll be fine Joe.”

Two sets of matching eyes met and held. “I know.” He sighed and eased himself away and returned to his room.

Two months later, at his sister’s wedding he stood in as one of Mike’s best men. For their wedding gift, he gave them a bronze wire cage, and a yellow song bird for their very own.

It was December 7th, 1941, when Joe’s career as a miner came to a screeching halt. The Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, officially dragging the United States into the war. The following day, Joe went to the center of Reading, and enlisted in the Army. He shipped out two weeks later, to Basic Training, and to his quiet amusement, he found himself physically the most ready for war. However, it did not amuse him to think that he would be shipping out with anyone who was not ready to carry their own weight.

A few days later, a Captain from the Paratroopers came to speak to the men. It was then that Joe decided to become the best, to fight side by side with men who would not disappoint. Not to mention he couldn’t say no to an extra fifty dollars a day, especially when his Dad was struggling to provide for his Ma, Ruth, and Mary.

They shipped him to Georgia the following week, even before the letter he sent his parents explaining things arrived home.

The first thing that Joe noticed when he stepped off the train was how god damned hot Georgia was. Not to say that the mines didn’t hit sweltering in the summer, but lord, Georgia took humidity to another level even in April. He sighed and adjusted the large bag on his shoulder. Joe was in civilian’s clothes for what seemed to be the first time in forever, and he couldn’t help but feel odd without the usual swatch of army khaki.

By his watch he still had two hours to make it to Camp Toccoa. Joe’s eyes roved over the small town as he walked out of the train station and came to rest upon a small diner across the street. Painted above its doors was the colloquial title of Aunt Sue’s. Well Joe didn’t have an Aunt Sue, but he never took to army food like some of the men in his old platoon, and putting off eating that slop was a good plan in his mind. The bell rang as he stepped inside the diner, and he proceeded to the countertop, grabbing an empty, ripped fabric seat, and then tossed his duffle bag under his feet.

The waitress was an older woman who had an air of ownership about her, most likely the aforementioned Sue. She gave him a warm smile and sent him a query in a down home voice. “What will you have dear?”

He regarded the chalked menu. “I’ll take the special and a beer.”

“That it hun?”

“Yes Ma’am, thank you.”

She wandered back to the kitchen window and hollered the order to the cook. She paused for a bit, and then returned to Joe when she saw that none of the other clientele had much need of her, especially at such an unpopular eating hour.

“I suppose you’re one of those boys who’re going to be a paratrooper?” She asked as she pulled out a glass and filled it from the tap under the counter.

“Yes Ma’am, though I’ve heard it’s tough.”

She smiled pleasantly. “My son said the same when he started a few weeks back. You’ll do fine.” She placed the glass in front of him and left to grab his lunch.

He had just sipped his beer when another man settled down two seats away. Joe watched him from the corner of his eye idly, and thanked the woman as she set a burger and a plate of fries before him.

He was busy trying to convince the ketchup out of its glass stronghold when Sue took the other mans order. His accent gave Joe pause and he turned to get better look at the guy.

His hair was a dark brown, similar to his eyes, but the most notable feature the man had beside his Italian nose, was his jutting jaw.

“You from Philly?”

The man’s head jerked over, his face turning into an obvious _what of it __glare before it softened in recognition of a familiar accent._

“Yeah, you too?”

Joe shook his head and popped a fry in his mouth. “Reading.”

“Never been there.” The man took a sip of his own beer and Joe shrugged.

“Not much to see.”

The Philadelphian grinned a blinding smile and stuck out a long fingered hand. “Bill Guarnere.”

“Joe Toye.”

Sue appeared with the man’s lunch and for a moment they both chewed in silence.

“You here for Toccoa then?” Bill grunted.

Joe nodded his mouth full of burger. He swallowed. “Yeah, couldn’t say no to fifty extra bucks.”

“Ain’t that the truth?”

It was nearing three when Guarnere and Toye stepped through the gates into the training camp. They had been joined in their trek from the train station by a group of five others who would most likely be making up their company.

They joined the other men, and milled about for the next fifteen minutes, waiting for their CO to make his appearance.

A minute before three he did just that. Sobel was a tall man, dark haired, lanky. He had a Jewish nose. Bill growled out catholic airs, when the man raised his voice to express the usual military challenge. You have three days to quit, fail out after those and suffer the consequences.

With that they were shuffled off to get uniforms, and Joe Toye’s experience as a paratrooper began.

There was something to be said about a routine schedule. It provided structure, something to look forward to, and in some cases, something to loathe entirely.

0500- Be awoken by a loud trumpeting, fall out of bed and into clothing, share angry sentiments with Tipper and Vest, his alphabetical neighbors.

0503-Roll call and abuse from a crusty eyed Sobel, and listen to Evans discreetly suckup.

0505- Run Currahee.

0615- Ease into Mess Hall, get cup of weak coffee, be sure not to spill. Eat questionable breakfast food. Likely to be: rehydrated eggs, spam, and cardboard toast. Coffee undoubtedly the best part.

0617-Commence George Luz, Easy’s resident comedian. 0617.30 seconds: See 2nd Lt. Winters blush.

0645- Morning drills and Physical Training.

1200-A repeat of breakfast, however this time it is titled lunch.

1230- Afternoon tactical Classes and Seminars.

1600- Drilling

1700-Hit the Showers

1745- Return to Mess Hall. Likely to be served for dinner, a questionable meat substance, beans and rice, and limp green beans.

1800- Return to Barracks for free time. Activities include playing cards, listening to Luz’s stories, backing Guarnere in verbal arguments, and reading and writing letters.

2130-Lights out.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

They had been at Toccoa for five months, which finally seemed to be making an impact in the two year training program. The men of Easy Company had by that time made friends within their own company, enemies of the others, and made a devil out of the mere mention of Sobel. They grew to respect their other lieutenants like the wily Welsh, ruler strait Winters, and the Houdini Nixon. And they tore up the town when they had weekend passes.

But all of the training and camaraderie could not prepare Joe for what happened next.

The letter was as inconspicuous as any of the others being passes out around the dinner table. It had a postage stamp, a once pristine envelope, marked by three different postage marks of all the companies that held it along the way, The US Postal Service, The Military Distribution center, and oddly, a stamp from Lancaster County Hospital. When he saw the handwriting he took a knife to the seam, not caring about the mess the residual gravy would make. His eyes scanned over the preemptive greetings and got to the body of the message. The part that was stained by tears.

An ocean rushed behind his ears, and a vein thumped in his forehead. He heard Bills questioning tone, and saw his dark shape bend closer over his shoulder.

Joe squinted as if that would make the meaning of the words any clearer.

“Joe?” Bills voice unleashed the flood into his brain and the words finally formed from the watery stains.

  
 _Mike shipped for the Pacific two weeks ago,’ __Margret wrote,’ _I had only just written to him that I was pregnant. The letter probably hasn’t even reached him yet. I can’t bring myself to write him... __The sentence was cut short, as if she had been unable to finish that thought. The letter was finished with four shaky words.__   


__

I had a miscarriage.

 __

Margret didn’t bother signing off, probably just shoved the letter into the envelope and handed it to a nurse to send off.

Joe folded it carefully, and eased it back into the envelope. He turned to Bill who still watched him with careful eyes, probably having read the news over his shoulder. Toye forced a grim smile and shoved his plate at the other man. “You can have the rest.” He stood, shoved his hands in his pockets and prowled away, thinking on how he could manage to convince the office aids to allow him a telephone call. He didn’t notice the twenty questioning eyes that followed his departure.

To his immense frustration he hadn’t been allowed to telephone his grieving sister, as the lost of an unborn child was not deemed a death in the family. Joe had terrorized the empty barrack for fifteen minutes before the first of the men showed up.

Unusually it was George Luz who arrived first, his face oddly serious.

“Hey Toye, Wanna play cards?” Joe nodded slowly, a bit taken aback. Though George was one of those people who easily befriended anybody with a pulse, he and the miner had yet to really become more than general acquaintance.

Joe sank onto the bed next to George and pulled the side table between them. Luz quickly shuffled the deck and easily divided the deck for a mind numbingly easy game of War.

The flipped cards for a few minutes before the small man broached the question. “Why’d you run off during dinner? The food wasn’t that bad.” His brown eyes jumped up to meet Joes, they were soft with a flat shine like boot polish.

Joe’s mouth flicked down and his hand reached out to take the card pile he won with a King. “Needed to use the telephone.” He let out a slow breath. “My sister lost her baby.”

“Mm.” George flicked the corner of his deck with his thumb. “That’s rough buddy. Did they let you make your call?”

“No.” Joe tossed his card down with unnecessary force, and it slid off the table and under the bed.

Bill appeared at his side, and bent down for the card. He slapped it onto the table. “Watch where you’re throwing those Joe. We only have four decks.”

The other men of Easy tumbled into the room, and split into their respective groups. Luz let out a sigh as others joined him and Joe, and he scooped up the cards to deal a new game. This time poker.

However he was not entirely put off his questioning by the added ears.

“You going to write to her?”

“Can’t do anything else.” It was the terseness of Joe’s answer as well as the hardness of his eyes that brought the dialogue to the end. His dark eyes met with the other men who crowded around the playing table, from Malarkey, to Muck and Penkala, and Cobb who gazed over the players shoulders. Joe put his cards down with a carefully controlled force. “I’m out.” He stood, eased his way around Malark, and walked to his own bunk. Bill followed at his shoulder.

“You married Joe?” Bill’s question was accented harsly by his accent.

“No.”

“Then who was that from?”

“My sister, Margret.” Joe sat down and the bed frame squealed. His fingers clenched and he caught sight of his dirt lined fingernail, the black earth making his skin pale, just like at home it was the kind of dirt that never came out.

“That’s rough buddy.”

“Yeah, problem is, I don’t know what to tell her.”

Bill’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, and gave a tight squeeze. “Tell her what you always tell her, you’ll find something that way.”

As Guarnere walked away, Joe knew exactly what he meant, but that didn’t make it any easier.

It had surprised Joe, after years of experience working with dynamite, that the army didn’t trust new recruits with live explosives. Their first week with grenades they practiced with wooden forms, as to ensure no one accidently blew anyone up. Joe couldn’t have been more underwhelmed.

Oddly he was reminded of that experience the first time he entered an airplane. The army insisted on dry runs for everything, even if that was merely boarding the C-47s a month before their actual jumps. Joe was one of the last to struggle up the ladder, weighed down by a full pack of gear. He followed the others down the body of the plane, each step reminding him more and more of the mine shafts, from disappearing light, to the comforting claustrophobic nature of the tapered plane tail.

Respect was something Joe never had to go looking for. At home his sisters respected him for his stories. In the Paratroopers he was looked up to for his strength, and character. But in the first weekend of March, of his second year of training, he was held in reverence for his violence.

PT, they hit the range for a hour. It was after that things changed from their usual course. The Captain of the 82nd Airborne’s E Company appeared with a challenge. His men against Sobel’s. The Chicagoan couldn’t say no to a chance to prove his were the best.

It started off with a wrestling match that quickly turned to boxing as men’s tempers flared. Leibgott was the first to show the 101sts right hook, followed quickly by Malarkey, Guarnere, and Cobb.

It wasn’t until the biggest soldier from the 82nd stepped into the ring that Easy lost a bit of its swagger. The men eyed the hulking blond, some with smiles that turned to grim lines. There was no way they’d get into the ring with that. Not that they were scared, it’s just priority. Living through the 30’s taught them to look out for themselves.

It wasn’t until Joe climbed into the ring that they laughed at themselves for worrying. Welsh who had been overseeing the matches, helped Joe pull the scuffed red boxing gloves on, and muttered quietly as he tied them. “I’ve seen this guy during training Toye, he’s big, but he’s not fast.”

Joe nodded his thanks and walked to the center of the ring. He could hear the other mans bellowing breaths as he approached, arms hanging at his sides. Welsh had them ‘shake hands’ with a touching of the gloves and sent them to their respective corners. He moved off to the side, to his whistle into his mouth, and blew the men into action.

Joe’s hands were sweating beneath hot leather, his eyes darting quickly as he discerned his enemies movements. Duck to the left to avoid a slow, yet powerful swing to his face. Joe’s quick jab to the man’s ribs caused his hands to fall to protect the area, a swift sharp uppercut to the man’s chin ended it all.

Two hits were all it took to defeat the Goliath of the 82nd. It was hard to hear his Companies cheers over the distraught objections of the other.

Joe looked up from the downed man, catching the eyes of their opponents. “Anyone else?”

He was met with adverted eyes. He turned away, and pulled off his gloves, grinning to himself as Luz led the men in a chorus of “God save Joe Toye.”

Joe couldn’t help but smile as he heard Guarnere’s jab of “He looks pretty fucking saved to me.”

He probably shouldn’t have been surprised when he got the news, but he was. Sobel had always wanted the best, and if making his company march hundreds of miles cross country, then who was going to stop him? Of course, Sink would have been the obvious choice, but seeing as he too desired to show up the Japanese, who made such a trek previously, as well as his buddies among the elite of the military hierarchy, he wasn’t going to put a stop to this proverbial showing of the prized herd.

In truth, Joe had thought he had covered all the ‘chance of surprise’ bases before he went out with the guys for their final weekend before the despised trek. But of course, he missed one. And was as stunned as his friends, when he received a stiff slap to the back of the head when he heard. “Aren’t you going to offer me your seat? God damn, I thought Ma raised you better.”

Joe sprung to his feet, unsure if it was the fact Margret was standing moodily behind him, or if it was her unusually strong language that prompted such swift action.

All the same she pulled him into a tight hug, turning her cheek slightly to receive his kiss, then sat down, placing her clutch in the dip of the navy cloth that formed from her crossed legs.

Joe’s surprise at the appearance of his sister disappeared as soon as he saw the wolfish smiles on his squad mates faces. His own visage hardened into his ‘don’t you dare’ smile. “Bill, George, Don, This is my sister Margret.” He sent them a hard glare. “Margret, this is Bill Guarnere, George Luz, And Don Malarkey, my platoon mates.”

She gave them a dazzling smile, and took a sip out of Joe’s half finished beer. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

It was easy to tell that they felt the same.

They stayed in that bar for another hour; Margret gamely dancing with whichever man gave the request. But by the time they had both swallowed down two drinks she was ready to go. She took hold of Joe’s hand, gave the hearty ‘It was lovely to meet you all’ and forcibly dragged him from the bar.

She paused for a moment in the door jam, then pulled him onto the sidewalk and promenaded down past the dimly lit store fronts to the small town green. They walked round and round the broken concrete path, her arm tucked through his. “You’ve been good then?” She asked.

Joe shrugged, allowing their closeness to betray the action though her eyes wouldn’t be able to see it. “I suppose so. Getting ready for the march.”

She hummed. “I heard about that.”

“The whole country’s heard about it.” Joe responded.

“You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

Joe shrugged again. “Maybe it is. I just don’t see how it’s supposed to help us win the war.”

“It helps the people Joe. They have sons, brothers…husbands, who have gone to fight in this war, and if they think that a Company making a march across the country will save those boys lives, who can tell them different?

Joe turned to look at her. “Do you believe that?”

Her teeth glinted in the moonlight. “Only when I want to lie to myself.”

They completed another lap.

“Have you heard from Mike?” He asked her slowly.

She shoved her elbow into his side, and her heels clicked against the ground with a bit more purpose. “I use to get letters every few days, but they shipped him out, and I get them once every two weeks. If I’m lucky.”

Joe wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “I’m sure everyone’s mail is slow.”

Margret let out a sigh, and tightened her fingers about her dress sleeves. “Yes, but that doesn’t make the fact he’s gone any better.”

“He’ll be back.” Joe insisted. “He’ll be back before you know it, and then you’ll have a bunch of kids to chase around.”

She sagged against his side with a shudder. “I sure hope so.”

In the morning when he saw her off at the train station, she pressed a small silky item into his hand and whispered, “For luck,” in his ear. She boarded the train without looking back, gathering herself for the life she left behind when she came to visit. The life where she lived in a big empty house, her husband gone, and their child no more. It would just be her and the Canary, who sung sweet tunes in its bronze cage, and dropped the little golden feather, that remained unseen in Joe’s hand as he watched the train move away.

In the end, their march across the country didn’t matter. It didn’t end the war, nor really prepare them for it. It was just the cause of endless blisters, and infinite complaints. They returned to Georgia by train, clearing out their barracks, returned to the train station, and headed for New York.

The troopship was worse than the train, a week and a half of slouching through too small doorways, cricks in necks from low ceilings, the persistent smell of sweat and smoke from men caught in close parameters, with little access to the outside. It grated on their bodies and their tempers. Bill and Leibgott the worst of them all, taking offense to every little twitch, every game they lost at cards had to be the result of cheating. It was starting to wear on Joe. “Would you two lay off?”

Liebgott leapt to his feet, cards flying into the air, like feathers in a barnyard scuffle. “You got something to say Toye?”

“Yeah shut up.” He rasped eyes narrowing.

Leibgott bristled like an angry tomcat, coming to rest right in front of Toye, staring up at him as if their foot difference in height hardly mattered.

The smaller man struck fast, hand snapping out in a flash to take hold of Joe’s collar pulling him down into the oncoming fist, the sound of the strike hiding under the outcries of the surrounding men. Joe shoved him away, fist clenching, as he swung back, his fist connected and it turned into a full out brawl.

It was George who jumped into the fray before some officer could arrive to dole out punishments, his voice taking the smokey, good ole boy tone of Major Horton before the men even realized he’d never step foot so deep in the ship. **“What is going on here?” ****Joe and Libgott sprung apart as if stung, heads whipping about to find the Major only to see George’s shit eating grin.**

Both men stared at Luz with displeased faces, eyes cutting across to each other every few seconds, as if not trusting the other not to take a sudden swing to restart the fight. George grabbed Joe’s elbow before the pummeling could reinstat. “Come on Joe, I found some cigs lets go have a smoke.”

Blood still boiling, Joe allowed himself to be dragged away. After following George through the maze like insides of the troop ship, they came to rest on the small segment of deck the enlisted men were allowed to occupy, a crewmember posted above them on lookout. George was true to his word and he pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes.

“Means fine tobacco, Joe.” Luz grinned as he passed one over and made use of Toye’s lighter.

Joe just rolled his eyes, and took a draw. “How’d you manage to get your paws on these George?”

The little man just shrugged and smiled. “For me to know Toye.” Then he pulled out one of his jokes that he threw around like a prostitute gave out sex, the sheer repetition of the spiel making it amusing even in its staleness. The men around George who had been listening in on the joke let out pearls of laughter, before begging him for others. Luz held the floor for a good fifteen minutes, a veritable standup comedian, before he growing bored of entertaining men he’s never met, not probably will never see again. He turned to Joe, eyebrow raised, lighting up another cigarette as he simultaneously ground out the stump of the other.

“Your sister seemed nice, even seemed to be fond of you though I can’t imagine why. The other broads obviously didn’t tell her of your lacking qualities.”

Joe eyed him stone faced, less than amused by his nonsequitor. “Your point?”

Blowing out a cloud of smoke, George shrugged. “No reason, just surprised is all; don’t remember anyone else’s sisters coming down for a visit.”

“Margret and I were always close.” He shrugged. “Wasn’t a hell of a lot to do in Reading if you weren’t mining, so we made our own fun. Sure you and your siblings did the same?”

Luz chucked amicably. “Sure we did, but I’m still having a hard time imagining that girl running around slaying dragons with you.”

Joe smiled softly, eyes turning down to watch the ocean as it crashed against the ship’s hull. “That’s cause she didn’t. Mom wouldn’t let her, wouldn’t let any of my sisters actually. She had this image of creating a swarm of perfect ladies, you see. But all the same, we managed to slay a few dragons in our time.”

George’s lips pressed together as his eye brows narrowed in thought. “How?”

Joe couldn’t help the flush that spread across his cheeks, yet he forced himself to look at Luz, straightening to his full height, even as he was embarrassed in saying. “I told them stories.”

A fire cracker had fewer sparks than against Luz’s smile, the glaring sun dimming against his obvious interest. “Tell me one.”

With a sigh, Joe took a drag on his cigarette and fell into the quiet, conspirital tone of his childhood.

From D-Day to the failed events of Market Garden, Joe had little time to think about anything besides war. Scrawling off letters to his family whenever any convenient words beside the vernacular of war crawled into the processes of his mind. He thought even less about the stories he’d be telling Margret if not for the damned war, because every time he tried to imagine his way out of the terror of night, his minds words turned dark and violent.

Like the other men, Joe was waiting for a time when he would be able to think about more than just surviving that cold sting of steel which waiting around every corner. He was waiting for a time when all their suffering would end, and he would be able to return to life as he once knew it.

Easy was stationed outside a little Dutch town that only Captain Nixon seemed to be able to pronounce. It had been liberated earlier that day from the German influence, and for once Joe felt he could sleep soundly, having wheedled his way into a barns hayloft with Guarnere, Luz, and Malarkey. A veritable vacation for the noncoms who should have been looking over their new replacements. “We’re in Holland; The Krauts aren’t around for miles. They’ll be fine.” Bill’s hand flipped lazily, as he snuggled down against the hay. Joe smiling in amusement as the stalks mingled with Bill’s short hair. “Damn Bill, you were made to be a farmer weren’t ya?” He teased, perfectly comfortable on his own pile of hay.

“Fuck off Toye.” Bill growled, hand going to brush out his locks.

Their life at leisure didn’t last long, a ruckus picking up around midnight, which had the four Sergeants scrambling after their gear, and into the night, gathering up their squads as they went. Captain Winters was at the head of the noise, yelling to the Noncoms to gather their men and meet back there by the trucks, they were moving out.

The where of moving out was an unknown to all enlisted man with the possible exception of first sergeant Carwood Lipton. Though even as they squashed into the trucks, half sitting on top of the man beside them, it was obvious they were expected there soon, real soon. It set Joe’s stomach turning.

They were deposited on the edge of a forest four or five hours later, the sky still pitch black, even as men light gasoline fires to ward off the chill. George hovered by Joes side, plucking angrily at the shoulder of his jacket. “Damn I’m cold.”

“It’s only going to get worse.” Joe said, not realizing how true his words were going to be.

Joe had begun to hate the color white even more than he hated the color red. Red was warm, red was pain, but red also meant escape, a chance at life. White just meant cold, and with cold came death.

Joe remembered back to the first day Easy moved into position around Bastogne. The bodies of the previous occupants still occupying the area around their foxholes like a squatter who wouldn’t take their leave. Joe remembered thinking their skin had taken on the same white as the trampled snow, as if they too had turned to ice. Corpses never looked that way until Bastogne, before they just looked dead.

This day though, when Joe returned from a day long stint in the field hospital after receiving an armful of tree, even the living ones looked dead.

What was left of Second platoon was huddled around Joe Domingus’s cooking fire, eyes staring out darkly against their pale skin, even those with the lightest colored eyes turning black in stark contrast.

Bill was on him as soon as he called out in greeting, ivory teeth bared in a grin that made Joe smile back. Bill held him at arm’s length before pounding his back with the fierce ferocity of the still living.

He was pulled into the food line, each man giving him a friendly greeting and a grateful smile. ‘Glad you’re back Joe’ they’d say. The relief of having a brother at arms among them once again as obvious as the burst trees that stood splintered around the clearing.

Joe shoved the food into his mouth, relishing the fact it was still steaming more than the questionable flavor. Luz wandered over, clapped him on the shoulder, and gave him a worn smile. “Glad you’re here Toye, Krauts nearly ran outta targets.”

He seemed more withdrawn than when Joe had seemed him last on New Year’s Eve, though he had attempted a joke. His pupils were blown, eyes rimmed with red, lashes clumped together frostily. They made Joe’s itch just looking at them, and he couldn’t help the hand that swiped across his eyes.

“How you been George?” He eyed him carefully as he scraped up the last of the stew.

He shrugged listlessly, eyes running over the small gathering. “I’ve run out of stories.” His voice was quiet, hardly above a gusty whisper, more air than voice. “Out of jokes too.”

Joe stood watching him carefully even as he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it up. He took a breath, before passing it to George. The other man did the same and it made its way back to Joe. Back and forth, back and forth the little white soldier went before it burned down into a nub of what it once was.

Joe returned to the foxhole he shared with Bill sliding down into its belly with a sigh. “Who’s on OP duty tonight?”

“Me, Buck, and Heffron.”

Joe grunted, and popped his head out from the cover of pine branches that lines the top of the hole to take a peak around. Skip Muck and Alex Penkala were settling in to the hole down to his left, Lipton crouched above Shifty, to their right. One last glance and he slowly sank back into the shelter of his hole.

It was well into the night when the branches above his head rustled and a pair of boots popped in from the roof and nearly kicked him in the face. Luz just grinned at his swearing. “Put the gun down, I’m not a Gerry.”

Joe sank against the wall, heart pounding, and fingers white against the stock of his rifle. “Fuck was that for?”

“What showing up?”

“Nearly kicking me in the face!”

“You’re just too pretty Joe, had to even the playing field a bit.”

Joe laughed quietly as Luz settled himself down against Joe’s side, shoving his hands under his armpits.

“You think of any stories yet?”

George looked up fast, eyes flashing white. “Not yet but that’s why I’m here. You wanna tell me one?”

“George.” Joe sighed out a stream of white air. “I haven’t thought of anything besides this damned war since D-Day. I’ve got nothing you want to hear.”

The smaller man’s face fell, lips turning as if he ate something sour. “Then tell me one of the ones you would have told your sister. You said something about dragons before.”

It had been two Days since Joe had fired his rifle, two weeks since Joe had felt his toes, and two years since he had seen home. Yet there he was, sitting a mile outside Foy, half expecting bombs to fall upon his head, and he was being asked to tell a story he hadn’t even thought about in over ten years to someone who was not his sister.

But George Luz had become something more than family to all of them. He took the stage at each request, spouting off jokes, and stories, and general good will that the lot of them had forgotten existed a long time ago. He was their resident funnyman, best friend, sibling, storyteller, sergeant, and radioman. He took all of these positions with a grin, and never tried to unload one upon another, and for once, Joe decided, he should be able to enjoy the same show.

“It all started in a land far, far away.”

They split ways when the story was over, climbing out of the foxholes to check on their men. When Joe returned je find Bill back in the hole. Half frozen from his time spent in the Observation Post.

Joe turned to him when he had settled against the other man, sharing warmth through their connected side. “Bill I didn’t know teeth could tap dance.”

Bill just shoved against him and cussed him into silence.

Joe walked the lines early the next morning, before the fog that swept in every night could fully dissipate. He called out every so often, letting the boys know he was coming, before crouching down outside their holes and having a quick tête-à-tête with whoever was on watch at the time. Making sure everything was good before moving on down the line. The sun had broken through the fog by the time he had finished, making it easier to find his foxhole and easier for the Germans to find him.

Luck was on his side that morning. No sniper took a shot at him, the can of heated C-rations wasn’t as bad as it could have been and when he changed his socks he found his toes were all in order though a bit blue, so wasn’t that a nice treat?

The afternoon however was a different beast entirely. Joe was once again out checking the line, berating his men to reinforce their cover when the shells started to fall. The first that hit, echoed singularly throughout the forest, a dull _whump __followed by a flash of fire to over his shoulder. It had hit near the line. It was a half second later that the sound of falling ordinance turned into a consistent whistle overhead._

 _Whump. __Another hit. A tree split and spat shards to his left. His feet scrambled beneath him as he pushed himself up, cringing as every shell swung overhead, waiting for the one with his number._

It was called next. Fire scorched his back, the force of the impact sending him forward, face scraping against the iced over snow, reddening his cheek and breaking the skin. He didn’t realize there was a pain in his leg until he came to a stop, back pressed against melting snow. I need to get up. Joe thought, even as the same words poured from his mouth. He kicked his legs, the left contacting ground, the right…

Oh god it _hurt. ___

His leg was hot, but at the same time cold, fabric sticking wetly to the limb. Why was it so sticky?

“I gotta get up.” He wheezed, eyes squinting against the blindingly white sky. “I gotta get up.” A breeze drifted through his hair. “I gotta get my helmet.”

His arms struggled below him, finally getting enough purchase to lift his shoulders. His stomach tightened when his eyes contacted red. There was so much red, pooling out below him, contacting snow and mingling. He faltered, breath exiting in halting pants. His leg _steamed __in the cold._

He fell back gasping, eyes crushing together. His foot was gone. His foot was lying in the snow three feet away. It was not connected to his body. He was missing his leg. A moan tore from his throat.

Joe didn’t know how long he struggled to get up, to get his helmet to prove that this was nothing more than a hellish nightmare. A joke that too many sleepless nights had devised. He kicked his heel into the ground and inched forward. _I gotta get up. ___

Strong arms wrapped around Joe’s torso, pulling him back, each drag leaving a streak of blood to mark their progression.

“C’mon Joe!” Bill growled in his ear. Tugging, tugging.

He had never been happier to see Bill Guarnere than the moment he showed up in Joe’s hellish nightmare.

“Gotta get my helmet.” Joe rasped, mantra stuck in his head. His hand fumbled weakly for the object, but Bill never stopped.

“Forget it Joe.” The Philadelphian’s arms tightened around his torso.

The trees slowly crept past, nauseating like watching from a car’s back window as it drove down the road.

Bill tugged and tugged, taking up a mantra of his own. Growling petty calming promises. “I got you Joe. You’re gonna be fine. I got you.”

But it wasn’t to be. Bills number had been called as well. The final shell of their war fell upon them.

It was Buck who found them minutes later. Pausing wide eyed at the scene before him. His whole body seemed to vibrate as his hand reached for his helmet. White knuckled fingers pulled it off and the arm slowly drifted down.

“Medic!”

The helmet fell with a crash.

Each slow blink of an eye brought new information to Joe’s brain. _Blink. __He saw Doc Roe had arrived. _Blink. __He was over with Bill. Why was he with Bill? _Blink. __Bill’s leg was bleeding. Bill’s leg was a mess. Bill was hurt because of Joe.___

 _Blink. ___

Suddenly Doc was there, hovering above him, pulling up his eyelids, ignoring the swears that poured from Joe’s mouth when he pressed a bandage to the stump that was once his leg. “You’ll be fine Joe.” His words came from underwater, clogged and unintelligible.

 _Blink. __._

Joe turned his head, sick with himself, because he didn’t want everything to be ok. He didn’t want to live with his leg gone; he didn’t want to be the cause of Guarnere’s suffering. His cheek pressed against the snow, and he felt it melt against this skin. The clarity of his eyesight wavered as tears threatened to overflow. Half of a blink and a flash of yellow stood out against the churned white ground. Catching his attention just as Doc stuck a syringe of morphine into his arm. _Blink. __p/ >_

Eyes narrowing in confusion before he realized it was the canary feather Margret had given him all that time ago. The thing must have worked itself out of his pocket in the mess. It shuddered in the wind, edges torn, and turned down, looking just as broken as he was.

Joe turned away from the yellow feather when he felt a warm streak run down his cheek, before the tear turned just as cold as the rest of the world. He had forgotten the world had more colors than red and white.

Toye’s mind churned to the rumble of a nearing jeep, head lifting out of the cradle of a jacket, his whole body heavy and struggling against the pain. He battled against the strain of his neck and glanced around. Brain processing slowly under the influence of morphine. Doc was back with Bill, talking to him as two medics arrived with the stretcher. They lifted the man carefully though they didn’t avoid jostling his leg.

Bill swore loudly, dark eyes finding Joe’s. Waiting until he had passed the other man to call out. “I told ya I’d beat you back to the states!”

Joe turned away after they took Bill away, looking back to where the feather had quivered in the wind. He was greeted an endless expanse of white.

It was strange that the white would remind him of the mines, being the exact opposite of those deep holes. Bright, clean. But once the image was in his mind all Joe could think about was the first time he went down the mine shaft, with the cold gritty walls that stole away his breath, and how the other men’s shoulders rubbed against his own, telling him that they were there with him, that they were in it together, that they would all be ok. But this time it was his eyes that were closing in around him, his breath meeting cold air instead of cold dust, and it wasn’t his father who promised him that this nightmare would end, but Doc Roe, whose accent remained foreign but calming, and it was Compton’s quiet sobs that made the promises that there would be a tomorrow, but it wouldn’t be a bright one.

Wetness clung to his lashes and the Doc placed a hand on his staunch shoulders. “It will be alright Joe.”

Joe. The name had been bestowed upon him when his father viewed him to be a man, but today he wished he were still a boy. His eyes pressed together and he tried to picture his Canary, tried to recall the sound of its song, to know if he was still living.

**Author's Note:**

> Authors Note: This story has been in the works for the past year, and I am quite serious about that time line. I would like to thank Sam who urged me on throughout the course of writing this. No one should have had to deal with so many bad and half formed ideas bouncing off them. And as always, HAPPY BELATED JOE TOYE DAY.


End file.
